


Devil’s Backbone

by BookofLife



Series: The Unfinished, the possibilities, the end of the roads. [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: AU, Darker than you think, F/M, Gen, Good man doing bad things, Good woman... capable of the same, I Don't Even Know, I could be bullshitting you, I hope I'm not :), I mean, Lots of crossed lines, S1 Re-Write, Super sexy, What am I doing, hopefully, ok, super dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookofLife/pseuds/BookofLife
Summary: If Felicity had known Oliver before the island, what would they have been like?What would they have said?How would it have changed everything?





	Devil’s Backbone

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea, no clue, no how or why this came about. I wrote this a couple of weeks ago and I'll add chapters depending on whether anyone actually wants them :)  
> Enjoy.

 

One

**February 2006, Coffee Nuts**

She didn’t get it. What he was asking- it didn’t make sense.

“You’re asking me to, _what_?” Still, _let’s repeat myself; just to make sure_.

Because he was joking, he had to be.

Ribbing her for all her oddities, her quirks, mannerisms and generally nerdy behaviour that made her stick out like a sore thumb in their now, non-existent group (now that they were all attending different colleges). Never mind her age and stature; that she was more than four years younger than him. That she wasn’t the tall, leggy pre-model that Laurel was or the curvaceous, yet athletic young woman Sara was becoming. That she was _definitely_ the type to go all _sex-goth_ at a rave - even at 15, because she could handle the aftermath of fuck-wards and jerks and rebelliousness had nothing to do with any of it - yet still become the bland student come morning when books, lessons and coffee took precedence.

Felicity was _just_ Felicity Smoak: your glasses wearing, hair dying (black for now), stereotypically nerdy, 16-year-old - _16 and four months, thank you_ \- genius who could barely stand the guy in front of her.

“Hey,” the guy being Oliver Queen who stood before her in designer jeans, what she presumed was another less than stellar shirt choice - Hawaiian shirts were his new fad: as if he were on perpetual holiday - under his _least_ audacious jacket and letterman scarf (hah!) and what looked like all the troubles in the world on his shoulders. That right there, was what confused her. Oliver didn’t _do_ worry. Or concern. Or guilt. Or anything that pointed towards preoccupation. His ‘thing’ was parties, alcohol, sex, drugs and then more parties. In that order. “I don’t like this anymore than you do.”

“And yet,” she wanted to fold her arms but that was Laurel’s move and she’d used it one too many times for Felicity to allow herself the pleasure: _4 months strong now, I will defeat this urge_ , “you’re asking.”

“I’m asking.”

It sounded like the biggest drag for him, too.

Marginally better than the affected _oh great; it’s you_ face that she’d worn when she’d looked up from her laptop to see that it wasn’t the cute barrister offering his ‘world famous’ hot chocolate with expresso shot for half price, was Felicity’s unmatched _what the fuck_ face and it was _clearly_ doing all the right things for him at this moment, given the way the clear reluctance he’d had for his own _suggestion/offer/whatever the fuck_ quickly washed away into something resembling conceited pleasure.

Like he’d been given a slice of a very late Christmas wish before having to brace once more.

He hated asking for this, but he was enjoying so very much watching her search for the joke.

 _Ass_.

But it was sounding less and less like a joke by the second.

Taking him in, giving herself a moment, her eyes slowly narrowed. “You’re _bored_ , aren’t you? That’s why you’re here.” Darkening the inside of Felicity’s most beloved coffee shop - the nearest, least ostentatious café, cheapest (though not by much) selling coffee that was less tar than the one _café nova_ boasted about outside of the dorm’s main library hall - on a mid-afternoon one Wednesday, during the start of a new semester.

It was freezing outside. Winter. And he’d hiked from his precious Ivy league college, Harvard - which he’d somehow managed to get into with a sub-standard GPA, which was nothing to snub at except Harvard demanded 4.0’s - where he was studying Finance and Business Management, to… what? Prank her? Annoy her?

Honestly ask for help, which wasn’t like him? Ergo, her disbelief.

As if he suffered daily - hands stretching the inside pockets of his coat as he pushed them downwards in agitation, like a big kid - he groused and rolled his eyes. “ _Ugh_ , this would literally be the _last_ place on earth you’d find me if I were bored.”

 _True_. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“You’re _so_ weird.” He breathed - brow tapering, eyes squinting - mystified. Like, how?

“Yeah.” She nodded, wide-eyed - both on familiar ground since neither thought too well of each other anyway - still beyond understand any of this.

“Just,” he licked his lips, searching the area as if words would spring up from the cappuccino machine, before shrugging; “think of it as extra credit.”

She just looked at him, because he wasn’t really taking this as seriously as he should be.

“ _Paid_ credit.” He continued; each word slow. Stressed. As if he was talking to a child - or a dog - and, with the way she was still staring - open mouthed - she could give him that. It was understandable. She felt a little dim just then. “I will _pay_ you.”

Like, _hello_? Does this compute? _Mucho de dinero_ coming at you.

Well, it did _not_ compute.

Oliver being there, near her MIT walk-in, made zero sense. The fact that his reason made _all_ the sense didn’t make up for the senselessness that was him in that moment.

This year - May 17th, 2006 - Oliver would be turning 21. Apparently, his father and mother had already sat him down to have the _talk_. Not the sex talk, no; _Oliver and sex have been well acquainted since he was 15;_ she could thank Sara for that piece of unwanted information. No, this was the business acumen talk. The ‘we want you to take over the family company one day’ talk. One of only _two_ talks on the planet that would make Oliver either run a mile or run to _her_.

His last, best hope.

The other talk? Commitment, but that was a long story for another time.

The story for right here and now was a short one. Oliver wanted her, Felicity Smoak - someone who he’d gone out of his way to pretend didn’t exist - to mentor him through his first semester at Harvard. The logic of it all was that, it was the perfect plan. She could do that easily. She’d never been tested for having an eidetic memory, but she inhaled books like oxygen and remembered most of what she’d read. That being half of the reading list Oliver was required to make use of and a diploma course in business studies because, who knew what she’d need one day.

And the tasty treat he’d offered. It wasn’t just the kind of money that would make the next 2 and a half years far less stressful; it was an _in_ at Queen Consolidated. _If_ she ever wanted it.

The nonsensical part of it all was three-fold. First, if he just put in the time and effort, he’d pass on his own. Second, she knew - everyone knew - that Oliver didn’t care about his academia. Third, she was the _last_ person on earth who wanted to help him.

Not the _boy_ \- _more idiot than man_ \- who’d taken Laurel Lance’s virginity, Sara Lance’s heart, Stacey’s first kiss - and first orgasm - whilst another girl in the room had her hand down his pants, had sex with Janice - Max Fuller’s fiancé - in a closet during her _rehearsal_ dinner, was given 7 speeding tickets, committed 2 road violations, assaulted a paparazzi, was reported for a misdemeanour and was arrested more than once for drunk and disorderly - that his parent’s money had all made go away - behaviour and dropped out of two colleges, all in the space of 12 months.

She was pretty sure drugs were involved with half of those, but Oliver had yet to be administered for a toxicology screening.

Put simply, it made even the proposition of money and a career opportunity, a stale one. Like making a deal with the devil… or one of his spawn. _So incredibly tempting bit, no_.

Also, he _knew_ that she knew all of that. He just… didn’t care.

“Felicity!” She jumped in her seat, but he snapped his fingers in front of her face anyway. “Yo!” Then waved them. “ _Hello_?”

“Alright, geez!” She batted his hands away, almost knocking over her coffee.

Major disbelief suffused his features. “You mean you’ll do it?” And her glare did absolutely nothing to him. As if someone as rich as Oliver Queen could understand how expensive coffee was to the daughter of a waitress.

Even if her father was a rich _man’s_ man.

“I mean, _alright_ as in ‘stop it’. Not alright as in, _yes_.” She cleared her throat, leaning back in her seat and not so subtly shuffling her coffee out of reach.

The scrape of the cup was _loud_.

His eyes followed it. “You know,” he stretched the _know_ out, “I can just buy you another.”

Yes, he could. _Would_. It was one of his redeeming features, even if it meant that he took the world for granted. He had so much money he practically threw it at people. Even with the arrogance and condescension infused in each waft of the green stuff, most people ignored it. They could, when money was involved.

And he looked so sorry for her.

She gritted her teeth. “No.”

“You don’t want a coffee?”

“No, I mean, no. As in _no_.” She cleared her throat. “No.”

“…So that’s a no, then?” Every instinct she possessed told her to _not_ trust the idiot with arched brows and a slight moronic grin slowly pushing up his lips. “You know it’s a good idea.”

“Good for _you_.”

He shrugged.

 _Ugh_.

It was - his face, his body; the whole package - the kind of countenance a person bore when they expected to not only get their way, but that the world would shift into alignment anyway if they _didn’t_. Smug. Irritating. Boyish.

Effortlessly attractive.

And not a care in the world.

She’d call it guile, except: she knew him. It had nothing to do with the amount of brain cells he _pretended_ he didn’t have. He just didn’t give a shit.

Oliver Queen didn’t have much of a conscience to spare. _Hakuna Matata could literally be his catchphrase._

“Just- just let me get this straight.” Trying to make sense of him, like always, hurt her brain, which was throwing her off her game since he was normally so easy a person to decipher. “I’m trying to work this out: _you_ want _me_ ,” she pointed to herself-

“Mm hm.” He hummed, nodding.

“To help you,” she pointed back to him and-

“Yup.” Eyelids just a _tad_ droopy, _oh good; he’s high,_ he stared down his nose at her, _something I’m used to by now_.

“Pass your first year at Harvard,” because he was currently in his second semester having screwed up his first; money saving him from expulsion until now, “just so that you can escape the folks at home until you’re 25?”

Yeah: the other part of the _deal_.

If he didn’t get his act together, if he didn’t show an ounce of responsibility, his parents would take over his life to do _just_ that.

Immediately.

 _Maybe they should_ , she thought as she looked at his intoxicated self. Still-

“Yep.” The word popped from his lips and, again, he didn’t look remotely bothered.

He wanted something. He _had_ to want something.

Oliver Queen didn’t do favours or friend requests. _Which doesn’t matter anyway since we’re not friends._ Not by a longshot.

“So,” he repeated; emphasising it with a little foot shuffle on the spot, “will you help me?”

Sat at a table in one of the three Coffee Nuts parlours sitting between MIT and Harvard, Felicity looked at him and uttered the obvious. “But you hate me.” She gestured between them. “I hate _you_.”

Sort of.

Again, with the shrugging. “Hate’s a strong word.”

“I don’t trust you.” She’d leant forwards on the table, adding gravitas to it and, for a moment, he considered her. Seriously, silently, considered her.

Then he breathed through his nose; his shoulders slumped and - finally - the look in his eyes met the darkness under them.

He was stressed. Worried. The smiles had been fake.

 _This_ was genuine. He was hung over and high because he didn’t know what to do.

“Call it a truce.” When she didn’t cave, he rolled his eyes; a pained slight smile making his case for him. “Look, if I don’t pass this semester, I can kiss goodbye to my freedom. I don’t _want_ to kiss goodbye to my freedom just yet.”

“You kiss everything else; it shouldn’t be too much of a problem for you.”

And it was when he didn’t take the bait, that she knew this was for real. “Please.” For the first time since that awkward moment last year-

When her 15-year-old-self had walked in on him, totally wasted, semi-nude, with Stacey and her over-eager friend who’d had both hands moving in his pants.

-He was looking at her in the eyes and he wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t being sarcastic or selfish or pompous or arrogant or superior or mischievous.

He was just a 20-year-old young man who was terrified of the future.

“All I want is the time to figure this out.” Voice quiet, it wasn’t indolent. Not anymore. “To figure _me_ out. I mean, I’m only 20; who knows what’ll happen in a year, two years? I should have the right to figure out my own shit.”

And… he had an unfortunate point.

He also looked decidedly small, another genuine thing, that made her wonder what the hell was wrong with her to be saying-

“Fine.” Voice _flat_ to his _quiet_ , she gave him a moment to blink dumbly at her. “But there’ll be conditions that - if disrespected - will result in me leaving you high and dry.” _And I will be telling your parents_.

He pressed his lips together.

This was something about him that she’d never understood; whilst everything else about him was so obvious it boarded on insult.

Oliver thought she was funny.

One way or another - whether he thought she was funny _pathetic_ whilst he was avoiding admitting that she even existed, or witty funny - it showed on his face. But since he was also listening - also weirdly serious and anxious enough to come to her - his eyes weren’t laughing so much as thankful.

 _God, I’m such a-_ “And you’ll buy me coffee.” She nodded, once. _Yup_. “Starting now and every single time we meet hereafter.” If she was going to spend time with him, mentoring him than heck yes; he could bring the good stuff.

“Hereafter.” Slowly, he started to smile. “Okay.” It was small but real. “I can do that.”

And the difference to his face was- _wow_. From pretty, serial killer to… Oliver.

_Um… nu uh._

Maybe because they were _kind_ of having a moment, she let out a groan, “ugh,” closed her eyes and dragged her fingers back through her hair. “This is going to be like Purgatory.” She mumbled. “Or something.”

She could practically see his shrug. “I’ll be right there with you.”

Eyes still covered, she huffed out a grim laugh. “You put us there!”

“Yeah.” That drawl; pure frat boy confidence right there. “And Limbo is _just_ around the corner.”

“Limbo isn’t a party, like the ones you and Tommy throw.” No, it was the world between states where you’re perpetually stuck. The great void.

“Not in _my_ wheel house.”

Her hands dropped; a brow quirked at the oddly frank expression on his face. _Not impressed, dumbass._

But he grinned at her. “Join me.”

_Join me._

Join-

It’s a pity they couldn’t stay there.

That they couldn’t remain stupid children.

 

* * *

 

**6 years, 8 months later**

**October 2012**

**Jitters:**

_What did he just say?_

No processing to be had here. None whatsoever.

“I...” Eyes blinking - near popping - Felicity’s cheeks puffed as she fell over the words Tommy was throwing at her. “ _What?_ ”

“It’s incredible, right?!”

It wasn’t sinking in. Tommy’s news wasn’t sinking in.

“I- I don’t, um,” eyes closing - throat swallowing, heart pounding - she shook her head, repeating, “ _What_?”

Seriously, _what did he just say?!_

“Look at your face!” Tommy Merlyn hadn’t the decency or the restraint to apologise for the mind wiping, life altering, earth spinning news he’d just declared at Mack 4 - loud as you please - about three inches from her face. “Ollie’s home!”

_Oliver’s home._

Oliver Queen.

Oliver. Is. Alive.

_Alive._

It wasn’t _all_ he’d said; it was just all she could focus on. Alive.

_Frack me… he’s alive._

_Oh no._

“I know, right?” Tommy didn’t seem to mind her silence or need her words. He had all the words. “It’s been all over the news.” Like, were have you been? _Sleeping and working, that’s where._ “Apparently he’s been stuck on some island for the past 5 years.” _Oh my god._ “ _5 years_. Jesus.” Shaking his head, he let out an incredulous breath. “I can’t believe it’s been that long already.”

Looking at him made her remember; sometimes she could forget that other people weren’t privy to things she knew.

Looking at him made her remember: she’d become an impressive _liar_.

5 years could feel like 10. Grief could last. Reality could be brutal. One choice could change your life forever. She’d lived and breathed every agonising second since the sinking of the Queen’s Gambit.

And he’d said-

_“I can’t believe it’s been that long already.”_

-That.

How long is a day, a month, a year, when you’re alone with the truth?

_“Apparently he’s been stuck on some island for the past 5 years. 5 years. God.”_

How could he just dismiss it like that? Like it was nothing. When Oliver was supposed to have been _dead_ and not… alone.

The fact that she couldn’t fully reconcile the bad with the _good_ in it made her remember how much things had changed and how much had remained the same. How much had been different _before_ the sinking of the Gambit without anyone really knowing.

It was a horror show.

But she couldn’t blame Tommy for his excitement and the way he was bombarding her with it. No, to Tommy, Oliver’s return was probably the miraculous happening he’d been waiting for; something to shake up his life. He’d missed him. Missed him so much that he’d pretty much spent the 5 years - when he wasn’t with Thea or Laurel - in a never-ending party she liked to call misery.

So, he didn’t know. He _didn’t_ know what this piece of news meant to her; he didn’t know her at all. He only what it meant to _him_ , hoping she would join in his ecstasy.

Whether she could or not, didn’t seem to matter.

So many secrets. So many lies. So much acting.

“What-” her throat was dry. “Sara?” And Tommy’s inhale was telling; the way his eyes gained weight said more. “She didn’t make it.”

Of course, she didn’t. The answer was written on all over his face. It was too much to hope for more than one miracle.

And even after years, it still felt like someone had shoved a fist inside of her and _wrenched_ it out.

He shook his head; eyes sad. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no one’s fault.” It was definitely someone’s fault.

“But, she was your friend.”

Friend.

How… belittling.

Tommy hadn’t paid _any_ attention to anything other than himself when he was at college. Or afterwards.

Once, before everything went to hell, she and Sara had been like sisters. Even Laurel hadn’t realised how close she and Sara had been. They’d shared everything.

_Everything._

Turns out, the closer you are to a person, the more you can hurt them. The more _they_ can hurt _you_.

“She was Laurel’s sister.” _Way to state the obvious_ , but it made Tommy wince before he added. “Have you spoken to her?”

To the almighty Laurel Lance who Tommy’s downstairs brain once pointed towards but was now - his upstairs brain - utterly head over heels in love with.

Yeah. It was _that_ obvious.

“Um, I’m not exactly her favourite person. You?”

He shook his head, voice quiet. “Not yet, but I think I know how it’s going to go.” She did too: badly. “I mean, Laurel and Oliver… I thought they were _it_ , you know?” Lips pressed together, she just… did nothing because, even though she kind of also had thought the same _once_ , she wondered now at _how_ they’d all come to _that_ conclusion.

Talk about a toxic spiral.

Tommy. Laurel. Oliver. Sara- _wait, what about-_

“His dad didn’t either.” Managing the words through what sounded like chalk dust and dry air, Tommy answered her unsaid question. “Oliver’s the only survivor.”

And it got worse.

 _Jesus_. She’d liked Mr Robert Queen. For all her youth, he hadn’t treated her with kid’s gloves. Even if there were skeletons in his closest she wished she didn’t know _Jack_ about, she’d appreciated his understanding that her IQ made it difficult to sometimes behave like the kid she was.

 _Oliver…_ he’s survived the loss of both of them.

It was so surreal that she could refer to him in the present tense now.

“Anyway, I’ve got to run.” Eyes gleaming, Tommy completely missed the idea that this might not go the way he hoped. “They’re bringing him home today.”

_Already?_

“Didn’t he _just_ get back to Starling?” As in, last _night_. From hospital to home in a matter of hours? _Only the Queen family_.

“Mrs Queen wants him home.” He shrugged; happily ignorant. “So do I.”

And what did _Oliver_ want?

What about tests? Was he ok? Did he need anything? Was he-

“I really do need to call Laurel,” oh _that_ would go _very_ well; “sort out some party plans- invitation is _non_ -negotiable.” The mock-severity was so far behind where she was just then. “So, you’re going. End of.”

_God Tommy._

Party planning. Of course. Business as usual. As if the first thing Oliver wanted was a party-

But what if he did?

What if, Oliver was still very much, Ollie?

_Oh._

Maybe, the same person who’d left on a boat to commit the ultimate of infidelities was the same person to return home.

_But how could he be?_

She’d changed.

Tommy, even with him being the irrepressible party boy, had changed.

Laurel had hardened.

Thea was disillusioned.

Moira was so fucking normal it defied explanation. _Not going there._

By all accounts and purposes, Oliver should be the most changed; the most _wrecked_. She wouldn’t be surprised if he needed therapy. Or time alone.

The look she sent Tommy was pretty much _dude, what?_ “What do you care if _I_ go?”

They weren’t really… friends.

“Come on! It’ll be like a flash to the past; the old gang all back together.” She was never part of the ‘old gang’.

Unsmiling, brow arched, Felicity questioned. “Have you thought that he might not want the scrutiny?”

“Hey, if I were him, I’d want _everyone_ lavishing me with gifts and affection.” Or a conspicuous night of dancing and drinking where everyone could _grab_ and _paw_ and _stare_ at the returnee.

“You know, he may prefer to be alone.”

He scoffed. “Not my Ollie.”

She didn’t wince, though it took her a bit. Ollie. _Yuck_. “Whatever you say.”

It took her right back to a period in time that Tommy polished like prized gold, but that she wished she hadn’t been present for. For the most part.

But the sound Tommy made was _relief_. “I used to daydream about this kind of thing, you know?” If she responded too soon, he’d be pulled out of fantasy land; a place he deserved to live in for a while. “Ollie returning from the dead. We were so sure he was gone and all I could do was accept it and make the all-time _worst_ attempt at moving on.” No lie. “Now he’s…” Another deep breath was followed by a shakier exhale. “He’s _back_.”

_Oh Tommy._

The most lost of them all. And in some ways, the most found.

Felicity reached out a hand, touching Tommy’s arm and eliciting a wet, clumsy laugh from him. It was a sight to see; Tommy Merlyn, playboy billionaire; bashful and sweet. Vulnerable. Deeply happy. “You missed him.” The obvious, sure; but he needed to release a bit of pressure.

Pressure and Tommy tended to result in sex and alcohol. Something she knew wouldn’t go down well right now; he had too much to _try_ for.

“I wasn’t the only one.” He sniffed before smiling. Always with the happy face.

“Maybe, but,” she tried; forcing down everything she was feeling just then to focus on the fact that, if only for a minute, this man needed her to be a _friend_ and not an employee at Thou Which Shall Not Be Named, “he was your brother. You haven’t been the same since he left. Maybe now, you can let go of the part of you that’s been holding on.”

It was a kindness, but she knew he never would.

Like Laurel, who’d lost both a boyfriend _and_ a sister - who hadn’t grieved the way she’d needed to, who’d forgotten how to freely smile - he’d never be able to let that go. Laurel held onto those feelings in _spite_ of her grief, channelling that pain into her profession. She’d pushed forwards almost _too_ fast, never looking back.

You could hear it when she spoke; the bitterness, her anger. Her demons as dogs barking on her shoulder.

How would that anger surface now that ‘Ollie’ was back?

How would _Oliver_ feel? Finding out his mother had remarried, seeing the wild and petulant young woman instead of the 12-year-old sister he’d left behind, meeting head-on the bitterness of Laurel’s scorned self, and the way the world had still managed to turn in his absence?

Finding out the _truth_.

One day, he’d know everything. That was the point.

 _That_ was what made her want to be sick. That made her smile a shaky, unrefined mess.

Tommy cleared his throat, dragging her mind back. “ _You_ missed him, right?” Her eyes flew to his and he bumped shoulders with her, playfully trying to move past his feelings of any kind - ‘I’m a dude, I don’t do feelings’, _says the_ dude _who swims in them_ \- which was unfair. “I mean, just a tiny bit.” Thinking he was funny, he brought up a hand, his thumb and index finger closing to a centimetre’s width and smiling at her. “A tiny _weeny_ bit. You missed the dumbass; admit it. _Everybody_ missed him.”

It was one of those moments where she wished she could be real with someone because there was nothing funny about this.

A breath she forcibly blew through her nostrils gave her time to ready herself to say - _very_ dismissively - with an unimpressed frown and everything. “We barely knew each other, Tommy.”

“Meh.” He shrugged in a way that told her he thought it was dead accurate. “Still, it might be nice. Catching up with old acquaintances.”

“After so many years?” She scoffed, and she didn’t sound at all like herself. “I’d be surprised if he remembered anything about me.”

When she remembered everything about him.

He was incredibly impressionable. Like, a shot of life. Even with everything that came with him.

Maybe it was better this way.

Even without the shipwreck, Oliver would only ever see the nerd who’d once spent the summer and more, trying to do the improbable. Instead of someone worth truly caring for. The sort of friend who wasn’t really a friend who he’d forget about, until that drunken phone call. That bothered email. That moment of conscience. That need for a friendly voice, free of judgement.

But she could only guess those 5 years had been _torture_. That was punishment enough; _more_ than.

_How did he survive the-_

No.

_Don’t go there either._

He wasn’t returning home from a war, wasn’t coming back from a very long research trip or a long fight against a health issue. Chances were high that he’d not be ready to return to a thriving city. What was the precedent for this? _I mean the psychological ramifications of surviving such a thing - all the things - are not pretty._

“You know; I don’t care if it’s been five years.” Tommy continued to be cheerfully unobservant. “I’m just happy he’s back.” Grinning like a schoolboy, he swooped in and kissed her cheek before practically leaping out of the coffee shop doors and into the light. “I’ll keep you posted!”

“…Yay.” She whispered after him, mouth open; staring at where he’d been standing.

Then she turned and hurried towards the thankfully empty bathroom, locking it shut behind her. Staring into nothing… then seeing herself in the mirror and flinching.

Seeing her eyes, seeing-

_“Hey.”_

His.

Her exhale was quiet.

His mouth. His-

_“Felicity…”_

-Voice.

Her eyes shut, brow furrowed. A hand lifted, covering her lips, and an equally quiet gasp pushed out of her as the quagmire of emotion and _history_ and memory that she kept sealed inside of her, ruptured.

_“It is with great sorrow that we announce the formal deaths of all those who sailed on the Queen’s Gambit. May they rest in peace. Join me now in taking a moment of silence for those who lost a loved one in this tragedy...”_

Like an invisible vice wrapped around her oesophagus and squeezed-

_“Oliver Queen is dead, Miss Smoak. He’s been dead for years.”_

-And suddenly… oxygen.

Eyes opening. Frozen. Realising.

_They lied to me._

_She_ lied.

In seconds, her phone was out of her bag; something cold, something like anger, overtook any urge to relieve the weight on her chest, the passion. The grief. Everything was muted; the world felt numb. So did she.

Numbers were punched in without her registering them and she spoke before the voice on the end of the line could. “You lied to me.”

There was a brief pause before-

_“I wasn’t aware you knew this number. Did we have an appointment, Miss Smoak?”_

Nothing in that cool authority could make her feel a thing right then. “You. Lied.”

 _“Ah.”_ That one sound confirmed everything. _“Mr Queen returned to Starling City.”_

It lanced straight through her. “You-” Her throat closed. “You _knew_. You told me he was dead, and you knew he was alive…”

_Don’t. Cry. Don’t. You. Dare-_

_“No,”_ the clear voice - audaciously void of any kind of conscience _-_ remained cool, quiet, _“an angry man in a ski mask told you-”_

“Ordered to by you!”

Yes, she knew about that. She’d known for a while … and she’d been afraid to question why, until now. But she reigned in because-

_Loud._

There were people outside the door…

_“I won’t insult your intelligence with a denial; I had reason to do what I did. It changes nothing. You still work for me.”_

And just like that, ten seconds in and Felicity had already lost. “I never worked for you.” It didn’t matter. To a degree, she was owned.

_“Not in the conventional sense, no. But our goals have become similar.”_

_Wonderful_. That was always terrifying to hear her say. “Tell me why you lied.”

Tell me why you had to.

 _“Emotion often gets in the way, as you well know.”_ She did know. _“I never pretended to be a woman of scruples. I said what I did because I needed you back in Starling City.”_

“If you knew he was alive… why didn’t you do anything about it?”

_“I’m not a rescue service Miss Smoak.”_

“Or did you-” she continued despite Waller’s words, “did you _do_ something? Was… was he always on Lian Yu?”

_What did you do Amanda?_

_“This is still irrelevant.”_

“That’s not enough.” She whispered.

_“It’ll have to be enough. There are more important things at stake.”_

Like, the worryingly missing Dr Markov, whose outlandish ideas and recent disappearance set off alarms, peaking Amanda Waller’s interest in Starling City. In Malcolm Merlyn who’d been amongst the last to see him.

“I know.”

_“Good.”_

“Amanda,” because there was once a time when Felicity’s answer to fear, pain and blackmail was tears and snot, “if you ever screw with me again - if you ever use the people I care about to coerce me - you have no _idea_ how fast I will bring to light _all_ your secrets or how hard I will use them to tear you to pieces.” Low, controlled, eyes closed, Felicity felt so very alone. “I will let the world destroy you,” she exhaled, “and I will do it gladly.”

Not missing a step, Amanda responded. _“And that Miss Smoak, is why I always thought you’d do very well here.”_ The smile in her voice was evident. _“I still need you to come in.”_

Fingers pressing into the bridge of her nose, Felicity released a gush of air through her nostrils. “Why? I have nothing new to tell you.”

_“This is a separate issue. Tuesday, 08:00am. Be sure to leave your scruples at the door this time.”_

There was a click, signalling the end of the call.

She’d never had control, not once, with Amanda. Just the illusion of it.

And a _tiny_ piece of power that the Argus Queen seemed to enjoy _not_ being able to eradicate.

 

* * *

 

 

_“He came back. He came back, and she didn’t.”_

“Mr Lance, don’t- don’t do this to yourself.”

 _“I mean, what are the chances, eh? Of_ course _, Queen would make it instead of my little girl.”_

“We have no idea what he’s been through or what he might have lost.”

_“Wait, are you- you’re defending him?!”_

                                                                          “No, I’m trying to remind you that maybe blaming the one guy who could tell you what happened to Sara might not be the best way to go.”

_“…Right.”_

“I’m so sorry.”

_“It’s not fair Felicity.”_

“It’s not supposed to be.”

_“I can’t get through to Laurel…”_

_“_ Neither can I, though I’m not surprised.”

_“Yeah.”_

“Want me to come over?”

_“Nah. No I’m… I’ll ok, sweetheart.”_

“…Ok.”


End file.
